Forget Regret
by TheMonarchyOfRoses
Summary: Mihawk finally learned what it felt like to regret not giving Perona the love she deserved from her daddy.


He remembered some gay song that said "forget regret or life is yours to miss". It was easy for them; they had a happy ending. But, this was technically not his ending, it was his daughter's, Perona.

_That damned child never listened,_ Mihawk complained in his head. It was through the tragedy of losing his daughter that he truly learned the sorrowful meaning behind two simple words: if only. If only she hadn't let go of her balloon. If only his grasp on her hand was more secure. If only she had seen that eighteen wheeler. If only he could run just a little faster. _If only. _

Now, he solemnly sits in his dimly-lit kitchen, his strongest wine his only companion. Almost half of the time, his mind was blank, but the looming misery never left him. No matter how intoxicated he became, he never got drunk enough to null his memories to rest. Or the guilt. He tried to pacify the anguish he felt with futile attempts to assure himself that she died before she could feel any pain, but the calamity of it all was just too much.

He never thought he'd live to see the day when he wished for nothing more than to hear her annoying kid movies blasting from her obnoxiously pink room, or for her to beg him to watch them with her. Perhaps, though, the thing he missed most of all was hearing her call him "Daddy". He would get so aggravated when she called him that, especially in public. He was too proud to be a daddy. He wanted to kick himself as he remembered all of the times he reprimanded her for not addressing him as "Father".

As his shaking hand raised the bottle to his lips, his namesake eyes glanced at a neglected pile of mail that has been congregating for God knows how long. He abruptly stood up, knocking over his chair in the process, and slightly wobbled over to the stack. Shuffling through some bills, letters, and ads, he came across a letter from Samuel's Funeral Home. Those three words were all it took to shock him into temporary sobriety. Reluctantly, he opened it. It stated that a friend of the family took the liberty of taking care of the funeral arrangements in his grief, and that the funeral would be held on Saturday. As he glances at his calendar on the fridge, he realized that the two dates matched accordingly.

What was he to do? Go to his late six-year old daughter's funeral drunk? What kind of father would that make him out to be? Well, it's not like he could feel more like a failure as a parent than he already did. If he just cleaned up and used mouthwash, maybe, _maybe_, he could pull it off.

Even though it took him the better of an hour, he managed a suit and tie. Stumbling out of the house, he made way to the funeral home by foot, seeing as it was a convenient five minute walk. As he walked, he recalled the many funeral car lines that passed his home almost daily. He specifically remembered the one time he saw a funeral for a small boy pass by. He could never forget the grief-stricken face of his presumed-to-be mother that has been burned into his memory.

Reaching his destination, he barged in, only to find it empty.

_He missed it._

He didn't even try to contain the tangent of obscenities that escaped from his mouth. Finally regaining his composure, he raced out to the cemetery behind the building. Looking for the freshest looking grave, he spotted one underneath a sakura tree. Catching his breath, he morosely read _"Here Lies Perona Mihawk. She jumped into life and never touched bottom." _He stared. And stared. And stared. And in that moment, he finally fathomed that she was gone.

By the time he was back home, it was dark. He didn't bother closing the door. All he did was simply walk up the stairs and entered his daughter's bedroom. Still saturated with her scent, he laid on the bed, studying each and every one of her self-declared "cute" stuffed animals. He especially paid attention to her stuffed bear she called Kumashi, whom she declared would one day have life, whether it be through zombification or the use of a ghost. His daughter's infatuation with spirits and death always alarmed him on a small scale, but he usually turned a blind eye. He was planning to get up and leave, but fatigue from lack of sleep and grieving put him to sleep.

He awoke the next morning ignorant. For a few, sweet moments, he had completely forgotten he had lost a child. But the room in which he awoke sent him a brutal wake up call. Not even a week ago, he woke up to Perona innocently stroking his mustache and beard. That was now a distant echo in the mystic chords of his memory.

He got up, and braced himself.

Yoru was in his hands now.

He wanted these particular thoughts to be focused on nothing but his angel Perona. Her pink hair, her own fashion sense, her refusal to take orders from anyone, sometimes even him.

Her name rung out in his mind one last time as he drew the sword and put it to his throat. He never flirted with suicide in the past; he thought that it was a cowardly act. At this point, though, he'd rather be branded a coward than live another day in this pain. Whatever Hell God had waiting for him could never be as bad as what he was feeling.

With one swift movement, it was over.

He fell to his knees, certain he wouldn't survive for more than thirty seconds.

"_Daddy... Daddy... Daddy..." _He was sure he was either hallucinating, or somehow, her spirit was calling out to him. He prayed it was the latter and embraced it. While he heard her soft, pleading cries, he noticed the world around him not go black, but white. Startk white. The kind of overwhelming white that induced migranes in many people. He didn't address it, but he felt an odd sensation of pain everywhere but his throat.

_Don't worry, Perona,_ he thought, _Daddy's coming._

Now everything has gone white

"Daddy! Please wake up! Please?" Perona begged, shaking her unconscious father's arm. She held his hand, hoping it would somehow wake him up. She wished she looked both ways like he always told her to. Hell, at this point, she'd give up everything cute she had in possession for his survival. Seeing him so bandaged, weak, and vulnerable was borderline unnatural. She'd been begging him on this blindingly white bed for about a week.

His hand twitched, sending a shock wave up her spine. Slowly but surely, his eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the brightness of the hospital room.

"DADDY!" She squealed. She jumped on him and hugged him, making him go "Omph!"

The realization that they were both alive and in a hospital room slowly sunk in. How, he was still unsure.

"I'm sorry, Daddy." She murmured. She began to cry, and in an unusual display of affection, he genlty wiped away her tears and pulled her into a snuggle-like hug, not planning on letting go. He even went as far as to kiss her on the top of her head.

"Thank you." She said tiredly.

He managed to ask for what.

"For saving me." She kissed his cheek, to which he gladly returned the favor.

How they survived, he was starting to understand. But he truly didn't care. He made an introverted vow to show her more love, despite whatever pride he had before.

And live a life without regret.


End file.
